


set my soul to rest

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: He’ll tell Arthur everything in the morning, about their point’s rookie screw-up and the missed window of opportunity, about shabby architecture and half-arsed extracting and how out of place he felt, but for now all Eames wants is to kiss Arthur, long and slow, and fall asleep. At least, that's what he thinks he wants.





	

The house is dark when Eames gets back, only a few night-lights left on. He drops his keys in the bowl and hefts his bags through the door, stepping softly down the hallway. He half-expects to find Arthur still in the study, maybe asleep at the desk, face pressed against his papers, but the light is still off. “Must be in bed,” Eames murmurs to himself, and tiptoes up the stairs. “Good.” He’s glad to find Arthur asleep, and even gladder to see him curled in one of Eames’ t-shirts, on Eames’ side of the bed. “I missed you too, darling,” he murmurs, too quiet for Arthur to hear, and shucks his kit as quickly as he can, suddenly desperate to feel the press of Arthur’s skin against him. He’s been gone for three bloody weeks, kept in London a week late, and it’s been made all too clear that cursory calls and a fortune in international texting just isn’t enough. He needs Arthur, needs his hands, his mouth, his smell--needs him like he needs to breathe, and he’s finally, _finally_ within reach.

“ ‘Mes,” Arthur mumbles, as Eames rolls him over and climbs in.

“Shh,” Eames replies, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s. He’ll tell Arthur everything in the morning, about their point’s rookie screw-up and the missed window of opportunity, about shabby architecture and half-arsed extracting and how out of place he felt, working with Maxwell’s old team, as if they’d all known Eames hadn’t given a shit when he died, but for now all Eames wants is to kiss Arthur, long and slow, and fall asleep.

At least, that’s what he thinks he wants. But Arthur’s licking into his mouth, controlled and precise, and his hands are on the elastic of Eames’ pants, toying with his waist, and it’s as if suddenly Eames’ entire body is remembering how bloody long he’s gone without Arthur’s taste and smell and touch, and he’s just as suddenly latching onto Arthur as if his life depends on it, as if he’ll never let go.

“Mm,” Eames says, intending to say something like “I missed you.” Arthur just bites his lower lip and sticks a hand down the back of Eames’ pants, pushing them down until Eames takes a hint. They’re naked in seconds, Eames’ shirt over Arthur’s head, two pairs of boxers—‘those are mine too,’ Eames thinks, but Arthur kisses a spot on his neck and he gets distracted—tangling at the foot of the bed. Arthur lines their whole bodies up against each other, presses himself against the length of Eames, and bites the shoulder with the Knave of Hearts on it, pressing kisses over the face of the tattoo. Eames just strokes his hair with his other hand, breathes Arthur in, grounds himself in Arthur’s body. Two weeks seemed like nothing when he accepted the job, but having the extra tacked on at the end—they haven’t been apart this long since Christmas and New Year’s, those weeks of pretending they could be casual, pretending they weren’t about to fall in love. This time was much, much worse.

Eames wants to babble, to press kisses and promises into Arthur’s skin, to swear he’ll never leave. But Arthur’s mouth is on his and there’s a hand on his cock and he’s sure Arthur knows anyway, so instead he leans back only far enough to pull the lube from the drawer and hand it to Arthur without saying a word.

Arthur smiles into Eames’ mouth, properly smiles, enough that Eames could lick his favourite dimple, if he wanted. Eames laughs in response, a throaty chuckle, and Arthur unsnaps the cap of the lube, rolling Eames to his back and kneeling between his splayed legs. He ducks his head, mouthing at Eames’ cock, and Eames pushes fingers through his hair as Arthur tastes his fill, fingers pressing into the cleft of his arse. Eames moans, and nods, and Arthur’s pressing in, stretching and crooking and sucking until Eames is writhing with it, desperate, and yeah, this is a hell of a lot better than just falling asleep. He presses the tops of his feet against Arthur’s thighs, keening, desperate, until Arthur takes the hint, lining up and pushing in.

And oh, god, how much does Eames love they’ve thrown out all the condoms since Valentine’s Day? So much, so _fucking_ much, he can feel Arthur inside him, can bask in the hot press of skin to skin, arch into the sweet, slick slide and the rhythm Arthur sets, his arms under Eames’ knees, bending him near in half as he leans down to lick back into Eames’ mouth. Eames can taste himself on Arthur’s tongue, tries to suck it out of his lips, to bring Arthur’s taste firmly into his own mouth. He’s surrounded, enveloped, drowning in Arthur and himself and still desperate for more, gasping with it, with the love and the want and the need. Arthur’s eyes are fixed on Eames, breath as quick as his own, and he braces one hand in the pillows behind Eames’ head as he wraps the other around Eames’ cock, jerking in time with his thrusts. Eames wraps his arms and legs as far as they’ll go around Arthur’s body, clutching close but never breaking Arthur’s gaze as he cries out unintelligibly and comes, still pressing Arthur into him. Arthur follows moments later, aiming a kiss for Eames’ mouth as he collapses, missing by a fraction. Eames just grins.

He’s suddenly unbelievably tired, jet lag and exhaustion punching him the gut, and Arthur is warm and they’re sated and he’s _home_ , home in _their_ house, in _their_ bed, in _their life_ , and he hasn’t slept for three bloody weeks. So he grins and he sighs and he tugs Arthur close when he tries to move, won’t let Arthur go even so far as to slip out of him, and he drifts to sleep, all without a single word. In the morning they’ll be sticky and the sheets will be foul, but Arthur will still be there; in the morning he’ll have to unpack all his things, but Arthur will still be there; in the morning he’ll tell Arthur everything, but Arthur will still be there. Not a bad deal, then, for three weeks of hell and epiphany, he thinks through the haze of beta waves and the unison of his and Arthur’s breath. Not a bad deal, indeed.


End file.
